


Innocent Intentions

by TheEverShipping



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultry, All the Marriage Problems We Know Ron and Hermione Would Have, Cute Kids, F/M, Ignores cursed child, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pre-Epilogue, Realistically Whiny Ron, Warning-Adultry, affair, dramione - Freeform, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEverShipping/pseuds/TheEverShipping
Summary: Hermione could spend the weekend having another pointless fight with Ron, or she could take little Rose and Hugo to London and let him stew in his own stupidity. She chooses the latter. The last person she expects to run into in a muggle hotel is a recently widowed Draco Malfoy, and his young son Scorpius. If life has taught her anything though, it's that nothing can really be expected or predicted--there's a reason she doesn't do divination, after all.





	Innocent Intentions

  1. “Yes, Ronald, I know—“



  
“ _Yes, Ronald—_ No you don’t! You don’t understand at all!”  
  
“I understand that you’re going through some sort of ego crisis and have convinced yourself it’s my fault that you’re in no position to support a family, while I happen to be.”  
  
“It _is_ your fault! You’re always the one who is good at everything! If you weren’t always there doing stuff better than me before I got the chance I might have learned, but you always just go do it and stick me with the kids and—“  
  
“I do not _stick you with the kids—_ I go to work. To pay for our house and our food and—“  
  
“I’m supposed to be the one who does that—I’m the man!”  
  
“Well fine, if you can figure out how to make what I’m making, you’re welcome to go do it.”  
  
“The joke shop—“  
  
“Pays a fifth of what I make.”  
  
“—is doing really well this quarter and George is cutting me in on the bonuses. You always interrupt me.”  
  
“You always repeat yourself, every single time we have this argument. The bonus isn’t going to make any substantial difference, Ronald. I am not being mean to you. It’s just math!”  
  
“It’s always math with you. And always _Ronald, Hermione Jane._ ”

Hermione purses her lips tightly, her eyes narrowing into the glare that means they’ve reached the end. Ron stomps his foot like a petulant toddler. Hermione resists the equally immature urge to point this out, and mentally pats herself on the back for having the maturity to stay silent.  
  
She walks over to the high-chair and picks up Rose, who is still covered in cracker crumbs. She fastens her to her hips, strides past the rocker, where Hugo is still blissfully asleep—undisturbed by the near constant background noise of bickering parents, and into Roses’ room.  
  
She pulls out a new shirt and has the old one off by the time Ron follows her, huffing, shoulders slumped, defeated.  
  
“I’ll do it. You go to your important high paying job. I’ll stay here and be a house wife.”  
  
“Oh no, Ronald—obviously that is my job. Clearly the only reason you are not on track to be the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, is because I’ve always been there, stealing it from you. I don’t want to hold you back from greatness. So I will take the kids, and you can go off and change the world with your joke-shop bonus.”  
  
“You’re such a b—“ He stops himself, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he almost said. Hermione knows his face well enough to know that it’s contortions are not proper shame for what he almost just said to his wife and the mother of his children, but that boyish panic that he’s about to get a scolding.  
  
She doesn’t give it to him. She puts her daughter’s fresh shirt on, pulls out her wand, wordlessly summons’ Hugo’s rocker over to her and mutters a basic muggle repellant—they won’t even see him. Then she slings her purse over her shoulder.  
  
“Hermione!” Ron hisses.

She ignores him, makes sure she’s got one hand on both of her children, and disapperates.  
  
They reappear in an ever-out-of-order woman’s toilet stall at Piccadilly station.

“ _Expecto Patronum,_ ” she whispers. Her otter dances free from her wand, playfully circling her. She smiles at it—glad, as always, that it’s got a sunnier disposition than she’s had for the past several years.  
  
“Tell them I’ve had an emergency come up at home and I’m taking a few days off. Limerick is to handle the regulatory review for those Chinese Wingle Doppers. Tell Jousley to push the meeting with Narobi until Monday.”  
  
Her otter nods pertly before dashing off, prancing across the clear blue sky.  
  
“Mommy I want to swing,” Rose tells her, carefully enunciating her words.  
  
“Do you know, you’re only three and I think you already talk better than Daddy,” Hermione whispers, nuzzling her nose. Rose pulls away, her face scrunching up, and she whines, “No nuzzles!”

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Hugo, still sleeping.  
  
“Accio, mobile,” she whispers.  
  
She shifts her wand back into its hip-sheathe, just in time to catch her cellphone. “Siri, find a five-star hotel near me.”  
  
“Seven five-star hotels found within a two mile radius,” Siri reports.  
  
“Display phone numbers,” Hermione instructs.  
  
Siri does. Hermione taps the first one her thumb finds, and holds the phone up to her ear. Rose grabs for it, “I want dinosaurs!”  
  
“In a bit, hunny,” Hermione coos, just as the the computer voice on the other end thanks her for calling and gives her a list of options to _better direct her call_. She doesn’t bother to listen, she just presses zero.  
  
“Dorchester Hotel, London,” answers a perky voice. “How can I help you today?”  
  
“I need a room for one adult and two children, available starting today, for three nights.”  
  
“Just let me check—“  
  
While the hotel clerk checks. Hermione steps out into the tube station. If she remembers right, she’s only a few stops away and—  
  
“Ma’am, I do have one room available, but it’s current occupants have secured late check out and the room will not be available until after 4pm.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Hermione sighs.  
  
She navigates the tube, gives her information to the hotel clerk, and shushes Rose with promises of sugar quills. Once she’s off the phone, Rose looks at her expectantly. “I want to play on swings.”  
  
“Alright,” Hermione says. “We can go to the park.”

She gets off at Hyde Park station, and has a rather pleasant short walk to the hotel. As she checks in with the muggle credit card, which Ron knows about, but doesn’t understand at all, she feels a flash of guilt. She should at least tell him they’re all okay—he’d have no idea how to find them at all, short of asking Harry for help, but he won’t do that because Harry usually tries to play peacemaker.

Part of her likes that Ron can’t find her—let him stew in his helplessness. But maybe that’s the part of her that Ron is always mad at.  
  
She shakes her head. She’s got more important things to do than examine the subconsious underpinnings that may be slowly eroding her marriage.  
  
“Where is the nearest park with swings?” She asks the overly made-up young woman processing her credit card.  
  
“The hotel has an enclosed garden with a small play area for children, Ma’am. You’re welcome to visit it while you wait for your room. We also have a child-friendly tea room on the third floor near the spa. If you require a nanny we can call an agency and—“  
  
“No,” Hermione cuts her off, smiling kindly. “It’s quite alright. The garden will do. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she motions for a bellhop to come over. “Please show Mrs. Granger to the enclosed garden.”  
  
Hermione neither corrects her, nor declines the escort, although she’s not looking forward to the minutes of small talk that await her, while this nervous, smiling, pimple-faced boy leads her through the maze of the hotel.  
  
“What brings you to London, ma’am?” He asks as they make for the elevators.

“Just taking a short holiday,” she answers. Hugo is stirring a bit. _Please stay asleep just a little longer,_ she silently pleads with him.

“We do have a house car that can drive you within three miles of the hotel. Most of London’s attractions are inside that radius.”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” Hermione smiles.  
  
“I want to take a broom!” Rose demands, glaring at the poor boy.  
  
“Uhh…”  
  
“She wants to be a witch when she grows up,” Hermione explains, smiling sardonically.  
  
“I am a witch!” Rose corrects.  
  
“Of course you are,” the bellhop laughs. “When I was little I was a dragon.”

Rose blinks at him skeptically, “Dragon’s don’t turn into people.”

He chuckles, and the elevator comes to a merciful stop.  
  
Hermione takes Rose’s hand, acutely aware of Hugo’s rocker, floating behind her, starting to jiggle. _Happy baby, quiet baby,_ she wills.

The boy leads her passed the spa, which smells like cucumber and cinnamon, to a glass door, with bright light shinning through. The garden is larger than she’d expected. Maybe fifty-feet, by fifty-feet, lit by sunlight streaming through a wide glass ceiling. There’s an abundance of plants, growing big and strong—ferns and big flat-leaved creatures that belong on a Polynesian island. The air is humid and warm. It’s a proper tropical garden right in the middle of London.

“There is a phone located next to the door, should you need any assistance. We ask that children do not climb the plants. The play area is located in the north east corner of the gardens. Animals are not allowed, although you don’t have any so—“  
  
“Auugghhhaaahhh!” Hugo lets out a gurgling sort of giggle. The boy stops and looks around, confused.  
  
“Must be other guests in here,” Hermione says. “I think I can figure it out from here, thank you for the help.”  
  
She pulls a ten pound note out of her pocket and hands it to him. The boy discretely takes it, smiles and nods. “Of course, ma’am. Thank you. Please let us know if you need anything else.”  
  
“I will,” she assures him. Luckily, he rushes off, clearly taking the cue that she’s done interacting.  
  
She looks around real quick to make sure no eyes are prying, before releasing the invisibility spell on Hugo. She takes him out, props the rocker near the wall, and quickly follows Rose, who is already running through the garden, delighted. She nearly inhales a butterfly, and only then realizes there’s hundreds, some fluttering about, most perched on the flora.  
  
“I want the swing!” She hears Rose screech before she actually sees her.  
  
“Sorry!” She calls, knowing there must be some other parent and child they’ve just disturbed.

“It’s my swing!” A high pitched voice retorts, oblivious to Hermione’s apology.  
  
“We can share Scorpius,” a male voice drawls, exhausted and bored, but somehow patient.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me._ Hermione thinks, as she comes around a bend of ferns.

Nope. Sure enough, platinum blonde hair, lanky build, expensive suit—muggle looking but with these little hints it came from a wizarding tailor.

He looks up at her, and surprise flashes through his eyes.

  
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

As he literally took the words right out of her head, all she does is sigh. “Why are you here?”

“I want a turn!” Rose demands.  
  
“Scorpius, let her have a turn, you’ve been on it for a while.”  
  
“No,” Scorpius responds.  
  
“Fine,” Malfoy tells his watery-eyed son, “she can have the slide then.”  
  
“No!” Scoripus objects, “It’s my slide!”

The adorible little mini-Malloy jumps off the swing and runs for the slide like it will be snatched out from under him. He trips and falls. Rose—to Hermione’s great surprise—ceases her pursuit of the abandoned swing, and instead runs over to the little boy.  
  
“You’re okay,” she tells him, crouching beside him.  
  
He sits up and sniffles at her. She pats him on the head, like she does to her little brother, then runs for the slide.  
  
“Hey!” He says, getting up and springing after her. She’s up the slide and on her way down before he can catch her though. He climbs up after and slides down himself. She waits at the ladder for him to get off. He runs around to chase her and giggles. She scrambles back up to the top of the slide, fast on her heels, giggling too.

Hermione’s eyes drift from the kids back to Malfoy just before his leave then. His eyes are soft, watching his son. She didn’t know his face could make that expression—a gentle smile, open, accepting.

He’s sitting on the only bench near the little play area—just a single swing, slide, monkey bars and teeter-totter. Nothing too fancy, but enough to let little ones get their energy out. He doesn’t own the bench, so she stubbornly perches on the opposite end of it.

His gaze shifts to her. She puts Hugo down on the ground. He eagerly crawls toward theplayground, but gets distracted by a fallen leaf. Hermione keeps her eyes on him to make sure he doesn’t try to eat it, and also to avoid looking at Malfoy, who she can feel is _still_ looking at her, far longer than he ought to be.

“Why are you here?” She repeats.  
  
“Letting my son play,” he deadpans.  
  
“At a muggle hotel?”

“My wife was a big believer in encouraging the next generation of wizards to see that we’re all human before we’re muggles or wizards. I’m attempting to honor her wishes by letting our son play with muggle children. Although today I’m not having much success.”  
  
“You know there are dozens of huge parks where you’re guaranteed to find muggle children just about any time of day, right? A posh hotel is hardly your best option.”

He looks away. “Baby steps.”

She roles her eyes. “Only able to tolerate rich muggles then?”  
  
He shrugs elegantly. “Some sort of commonality is… useful.”

“We’re all human, Malfoy. Isn’t that the point? We all have way more in common than money or magic could ever alter.”

“Why are you here Granger?” He asks, just the very slightest edge of defense in his voice, well-buried, hidden—but she knows the Malfoy who didn’t hide it, so she can’t help but hear it.

She looks back at the children, giggling as they continue to chase each other up and down the slide. “Spending time with my children.”  
  
“Where’s the weasel?”

Her lip accidentally quirks up. It’s not that his demeaning nickname is amusing, or even brings back fond memories, it just… It just brings her back to a time and a self before she was this new creature called _mother_ and _wife_.

“He’s busy changing the world with his joke shop,” she answers wryly.

Ron would feel quite betrayed if she knew he’d just said that to Malfoy, of all people. But she’s still angry enough that she doesn’t particularly care. He’s down right delusional if he thinks his job is more important than hers in any way at all, and she’s just sick of it.

“His brother’s joke shop,” Malfoy corrects, almost disinterestedly, like he’s merely remembering a fact.  
  
“Yes,” she confirms.  
  
Silence falls. It’s not a bad silence. It’s not loaded and heavy, even though maybe it should be. And it’s not really silence anyway, because Rose and Scorpius are filling the whole garden with their sweet, pure laughter.  
  
Hugo crawls beyond the leaf to the edge of the sandbox. His pudgy little hands reach inside, half grasping, half wacking the sand about. Hermione sits at the edge of the bench, watching. Malfoy leans forward and sighs.  
  
“So have you actually succeeded at playing with muggle children, or is this your first attempt?” Hermione quickly asks, before he can say anything. She feels ridiculous for it though, rushed and nervous. Turns out mysteriously _not_ uncomfortable silence can be pretty nerve racking.

“First attempt,” he answers. _Where is the antagonism?_

 _“_ I… Do you have… Is your mother…”

He tilts his head, and his lip quirks up at the edge, a ghost of the smirk he once couldn’t be seen without. “Just ask what you’re trying to ask Granger.”

“I read about your wife in the Prophet. I’m… I know there are no words. I also know being a single parent is very very hard.”  
  
“How would you know that?” He asks, his eyes boring into hers now—they’re so light, just blue enough to not be silver, but too silver and light to really be blue. She already knew that, of course, but they look different now that they’re soaked in sadness.

She looks away, back at the children. They’ve made their way to Hugo and are building a sand pile near him. He bats at it enthusiastically. Rose frowns, her brow furrowing, like it does when she’s about to be mad, but Scorpius giggles and piles more sand on top. Rather than becoming angry with her brother, she joins in pile-building.

“I… Of course, obviously I don’t really know what it’s like,” Hermione finally responds, shaking her head at her own ridiculous—how petty and selfish of her to think her frustrations with Ron’s childishness could possibly equivocate to truly being a single parent because your spouse is dead.

“You feel like you do though, don’t you?” Malfoy responds, casually, indifferently even, like it’s just an observation.

She’s supposed to bristle and defend Ron, she knows, but… But she doesn’t feel bristly. She feels relieved.  
  
“Sometimes,” she admits. “Sometimes it feels like I’m raising a baby, a toddler and a teenager.”

Malfoy merely nods, his eyes returning to the children now. Silence falls once more. They watch sand piles be made and destroyed, made again and abandoned in favor of returning to silde. Hugo stares after the older kids in wonder.  
  
She doesn’t know how long it lasts. She just feels tired… but not alone. It’s rather, companionable.

The door opens and footsteps draw closer. Hermione straightens her back, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Malfoy do the same.  
  
The chatty bellhop who lead her to the garden appears before her. With a big, pristinely white smile, he holds out two room keys tucked into a fancy little cardholder, and proudly says, “Mrs. Granger, we were able to finish your room early.”

She stands up, feeling interrupted and invaded. It’s not that she wanted to stay or anything, of course, but the energy was mysteriously peaceful here, and the bellhop has sucked it all out with his overly perky voice and bouncy steps.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting the keys.  
  
“Of course,” he cheerfully replies, “I’d be happy to show you to your room, Mrs. Granger.”

Behind her Malfoy makes the slightest noise of amusement. She can _hear_ the smirk in it.  
  
“No thank you,” she tells the bellhop, through pursed lips. “I’m sure I can find it.”

“Of course, Mrs. Granger,” he says, nodding politely. “If you need any assistance, there are phones located near every elevator. Thank you again for staying with the Dorchester.”  
  
She gives him a nod, and what she hopes is a smile that passes as friendly, despite the impatience she’s feeling.

The bellhop walks away. She _almost_ sits back down on the bench, but catches herself. Instead she retrieves Hugo, situates him on her hip, and casts invisibility, float and follow charms back on the rocker. Malfoy remains silent.  
  
“Come on Rose, time to go.” Hermione says.  
  
“NO!” Rose instantly shrieks, “I’m playing!”  
  
“I know, sweetie, but it’s time for us to go. We need to eat lunch.”

Rose stands up to her full height, clenches her little fists, stomps her foot, and bellows, “I don’t want lunch! I want to play!”

“We can come back and play later. You need to eat something nutritious.”  
  
“NO! I want to play with my friend!”  
  
Malfoy stands up, only to take a few steps and crouch down near the edge of the sandbox. “How about if we play again soon, would that be alright?”  
  
Rose looks from him to Hermione and back, her watery eyes trembling with the struggle of deciding which adult is more likely to grant her what she desires.  
  
“I want to play,” she mutters.  
  
“Scorpius,” Malfoy says. “Would you like to play with Rose again?”

Scorpius nods, his bright blond hair bouncing in his enthusiasm.  
  
“See,” Malfoy gently says, turning his gaze back to Rose. “We will play again. Your mum is right though—we can’t play without nutritious food to help our brains and bodies work well."

“But I want to,” she pouts.

“Come on Rose,” Hermione softly prompts, holding her hand out. “I promise we will come back and play later.”

“Can I have pancakes?” Rose asks.  
  
“Sure,” Hermione says, strategically leaving out the internal _after you eat a turkey sandwich and some vegetables._

“I want chocolate chips.” Rose adds, her pouty lips turning up.  
  
“Alright,” Hermione agrees. Rose takes her hand.  
  
She meets Malfoy’s eyes and mouths, _“Thank you.”_

He nods. Like this whole thing isn’t absolutely bizarre.

They make it about ten feet, when Hermione feels compelled to turn around. Malfoy has returned to the bench. Scorpius is between his legs, looking up at him, whispering—seemingly asking for something.

She doesn’t know why she says it, but she feels _obligated_ , or something, with him being helpful with Rose and all.“If you really want to let the kids play again, we’ll be here for a few days and… Well, since you’re scared of muggles, we can go to a muggle park together.”  
  
He turns toward her, fixes her with a piercing stare, silent just long enough for some sort of density to seep into the room. “You think I’m more scared of muggles, than you Granger?”  
  
“Are you scared of me?”  
  
“I would be if I didn’t know you.”  
  
“You don’t know me."  
  
“Why are you inviting me to the park then?”  
  
“I’m just being nice, Malfoy.”  
  
“Well, there you go then, same old Granger. I do know you.”  
  
“You really don’t.”  
  
“I know enough to not be scared of you. And I know enough to know that any reasonable person would be.”

He says it like it’s a compliment. She resists the pull to smile. “So you’re not reasonable, then?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” he sighs, like it’s actually a deep, gut-wrenching confession.

His gaze shifts away from her, over Scorpius’ head, fixed on something off in the distance—something she can’t see. She shifts Hugo and gives Roses’ hand a gentle tug, resuming their walk out of the garden.

They make it three steps, before Malfoy calls, “I’ll owl you about the park.”  
  
She looks back at him, but he’s still watching Scorpius.

“Okay,” she answers, probably too quietly for him to hear.


End file.
